Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

foot in that room again. Just like anything else she wanted to ignore or deny, Eugenia's room and its surroundings would no longer exist for her, if she could help it.
    Mamma was desperate to end the sorrow, to wipe away the tragedy and the pain of loss she felt. I knew she wished she could close up her memories of Eugenia, the same way she could close the covers of a novel. She went so far as to take down some of the photographs of Eugenia that were hanging in her reading room. She buried the smaller ones at the bottom of one of her dresser drawers and had the large ones put into the bottoms and backs of closets. If I ever mentioned Eugenia's name, Mamma would close her eyes, pressing them shut so tightly, she looked like she was suffering with a horrible headache. I was sure she shut off her ears as well, for she waited for me to stop talking and then went on doing whatever it was she was doing before I had interrupted.
    Papa certainly didn't mention Eugenia's name, except in an occasional prayer at dinner. He didn't ask about her things, nor as far as I could tell, question Mamma as to why she had taken down most of the pictures and hidden them away. Only Louella and I seemed to think about Eugenia and mention her to each other from time to time.
    From time to time, I visited her grave. For a long while in fact, I ran out there as soon as I returned from school and babbled over the mound and at the stone, tears blurring my vision as I described the day's events just the way I used to describe them when Eugenia was alive and I would hurry to her room. But gradually, the silence that greeted me began to set in and take its toll. It wasn't enough to imagine the way Eugenia would smile or imagine her laugh. With every passing day that smile and that laugh diminished. My little sister was truly passing away. I understood that we don't forget the people we love, but the light of their lives and the warmth we felt in their presence dwindles like a candle in the darkness, the flame growing smaller and smaller as time carries us forward from the last moment we spent together.
    Despite her attempt to ignore and forget the tragedy, Mamma was more deeply affected by it than she thought, even more than I imagined she could be. It did her no good to shut up Eugenia's room and hide any reminder of her; it did her no good to avoid mentioning her. She had lost a child, a child she had nursed and cherished, and gradually, in little ways at first, Mamma began to slip into a reluctant mourning that absorbed her every waking moment.
    Suddenly, she wasn't dressing as nicely, nor was she taking as many pains with her hair and makeup. She would wear the same dress for days as if she didn't notice it was wrinkled or stained. Not only did she lack the strength to brush her hair, but she lacked the interest to ask Louella or I to do it. She didn't attend any gatherings of her women friends and permitted months to pass without hosting one. Soon the invitations stopped altogether and no one called at The Meadows.
    I noticed Mamma's paleness and sad eyes growing darker and darker. I would walk by her reading room and see her lying on her lounge, but instead of reading her books, I would find her staring into space, the book closed on her lap. Most of the time, the music wasn't playing either.
    "Are you all right, Mamma?" I would ask, and she would turn as if she had forgotten who I was and gaze at me for a long moment before responding.
    "What? Oh yes, yes, Lillian. I was just daydreaming. It's nothing." She would flash an empty smile and attempt to read, but when I looked in on her again, I found her the way I had found her before—floundering in despair, the book closed on her lap, her eyes glassy, staring off into space.
    If Papa noticed any of this, he never mentioned it in Emily's or my presence. He didn't comment about her long silences at the dinner table; he said nothing about the way she looked nor did he complain about her sad eyes and occasional outbursts of tears. Shortly after Eugenia's death, for apparently no reason whatsoever, Mamma would suddenly start to cry. If she did so at the dinner table, she would get up and leave the dining room. Papa would blink, watch her go, and then return to his food. One night nearly six months after Eugenia's passing, after Mamma had done this once again at dinner, I spoke up.
    "She's getting worse and worse, Papa," I said, "not better. She doesn't read or listen to her music anymore or care